Doctors and Dead Men
by Geeyaa
Summary: As John struggles to cope with life without Sherlock, he begins to fear for his own safety when he starts to suspect someone is watching him. Suddenly, its not so much grieving Sherlock Holmes, so much as investigating if he even has to. But without the rapid deductions of one consulting detective, will John discover if his stalker is an old friend... or a dangerous foe?
1. Prologue

Two days.

The death of Sherlock Holmes had hit them all hard; and the whole world had come to a standstill. Even Scotland Yard's homicide and forensic division had ground to an excruciating halt. All the police officers and forensic investigators who ever worked in close quarters with Sherlock Holmes had been temporarily suspended, pending investigation. So they sat at home, mirroring the positions of three grieving friends and the brother – sat alone in a darkened room, staring into space.

If you were to look closer though, the faces would all be different; like a collage of emotion – all diverse, but all still devastatingly similar.

The estranged brother (Mycroft Holmes') face was stony as usual, displaying nothing but tight control, power and self-assurance. But behind his eyes, The Iceman burned. He roiled and thrashed internally in the all-consuming chains of guilt and sorrow; refusing to let it melt his cold exterior. He only succeeded when he wasn't alone. He knew he was to blame for this tragedy, for getting the little brother he loved so dearly killed; he didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out. But still, Mycroft's compartmentalizing abilities and deduction skills were never up to the impeccable standard of the younger Holmes, and he just couldn't stop thinking of ways that he could have prevented it. Deep down he knew it was impossible; he just wasn't as good at the whole deduction lark as Moriarty and Sherlock. He couldn't keep up. But still the thought tortured him and Mycroft was reminded of the phrase he had reiterated to his younger brother from such a young age. 'Caring is not an advantage.'

The landlady – not housekeeper – sat with tears brimming her over her large brown eyes in 221A; half in shock. Sherlock Holmes was always getting himself into trouble, flirting with death and disaster in a desperate attempt to not be BORED. But he always came home eventually. Always. He'd been coming home sooner and sooner after living with John for a few months. Most of the time, he even arrived home from cases _with_ John. Tears stained her cheeks as she thought of her other tenant. _Poor John. Poor, poor, poor, poor John. _She thought, _how will he survive without Sherlock to look after? _Mrs. Hudson knew more about the cause of the complicated dynamics of the relationship between John and Sherlock, than they themselves did.The both of them remained blissfully unaware of the tension, and studiously in denial when queried about it. She sighed, taking another large swig of her drink whilst swallowing down an herbal soother.

_My boys. My poor, poor boys_.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade could safely say that this time two years ago, he would not have considered himself a friend of Sherlock Holmes. Hell, three days ago he wouldn't of said he was thatclose to the officious bastard anyway. But now… As soon as Lestrade had heard that Sherlock Holmes had jumped off that goddamn hospital roof, he realised just how fond of him he actually was.

Rather than just being 'that-arsehole-genius-who-solves-cases-when-I-can't', Sherlock had become a friend; and a bloody close one too. Lestrade knew what – or rather, _who_ – had caused this change. Doctor John H. Watson had worked his way into the detective's life, smoothing and softening all the sharp edges, making the abrasive genius less callous and almost kinder with his condescension – less purposefully harsh.

Greg was almost proud of the way his friend had changed, and Lestrade had started to think that perhaps they were, in fact, going to be very, very lucky. But he couldn't forget who had been the catalyst for this change, and he couldn't help but be thankful of the tiny soldier.

He didn't envy Doctor Watson's position. He never had. Lestrade could imagine living with the world's most arrogant prick was not the easiest thing to do, but he'd admired him for it. But it didn't take a genius like Sherlock Holmes to realise that Sherlock was so very important to John, and if he was taken away from him against his will, that it would not go down well. One might say he would be heartbroken, Greg mused through his sadness. Yes. Lestrade was grieving over Sherlock Holmes – he recognized the choked and achy symptoms of grief – but he knew there were two who had it worse. John Watson and Mycroft Holmes.

Doctor John Watson knew he was sinking back into the depression he'd developed upon coming back from Afghanistan. He didn't care. It was perversely appropriate really – That he should fall when Sherlock falls. John felt now that his life had simply descended back to the way it was... before. He was no longer the haphazard whole that Sherlock had made him just hours after their introduction; he had gone back to the weary soldier, invalided home.

John knew he would feel a tiny bit better – no, that was the wrong word – more _human_ if he cried. If he sobbed his heart straight out of his chest, he knew he could just begin to _try_ and carry on with his life. Not as normal. No. John's life had only been normal in the few days between returning back to London and meeting Sherlock – crushingly so. But he couldn't cry. It was too much. The empty feeling of numb _agony_ and aloneness choked John from the inside, pushing up his throat and churning in his stomach, rendering him unable to let go enough to let the tears flow. So he just sat there, staring at Sherlock's empty black chair and the clutter of Sherlock's things, mixed with his own.

But it wasn't just sadness. It was rage. How _dare_ he go where John couldn't follow? Because that's what he was – the follower. The Doctor. The blogger. The friend. But it wasn't as simple as that; Sherlock was so much more to John than the detective realised. John wasn't even sure what all the facets of what he felt _were._ He just knew he _cared_. Sherlock taught him to be brave – braver than he ever had been in the Army. He kept John's limp at bay, kept him busy, annoyed him, made him _furious_, happy and excited all at the same time; and made him laugh more than he ever had in his life, just by being himself. John owed him so much.

And now John's fantastic consulting detective/colleague/flatmate/friend/reason-he-was-still-alive was dead and there was nothing he could ever do about it.

John felt he had failed.

Failed _Sherlock_.

Let him down.

He'd been all alone, and he owed him so much.

Oh, God.


	2. Chapter 1

John thought he was ready to return to 221B. In fact, he thought he needed it, no matter what his goddamned therapist said. When John tried to bring up Sherlock's face, it wasn't as easy as it had been; and that was unforgivable. He needed something real, tangible to hang on to, because he didn't want to forget. Not now, not ever. So it was time.

Before it had been too hard; the constant painful reminder that Sherlock was gone. Dead. But now he needed it. He needed the reminder that Sherlock had existed, because the whole fucking world seemed content to pretend that he never did. So he told Harry that she didn't have to suffer his depressive mood swings for much longer. She didn't seem too pleased however – not that John really cared what his always-half-drunk-sibling thought anyhow.

He wasn't surprised when Ella found out about his decision to return to Baker Street, though he suspected his sister had had something to do with it. She contested his choice, naturally. They all did. Except for Mrs. Hudson, she… understood. But despite the criticism and the warnings against it, he soldiered on with his resolution, determined to see it through.

Today's therapy session was no different from any other; he sat staring into his hands, palms up in his lap – a position he seemed to assume in an increasing frequency these days, Ella noted – and barely listened to her reasoning behind the advice to not go home. He looked up only at his name, "John?" John looked at her concerned, friendly face and he almost felt bad about letting her down. Almost.

"Mrs. Hudson needs me." He murmured – a half arsed excuse – and turned his gaze back to his lap to avoid the questions and anxiety that clouded his therapist's eyes.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to do or where to start – which was a relatively new development for him. Truth be told, Sherlock hadn't actually thought much about what he was going to do after he'd successfully convinced the world of his demise. The entirety of his fantastic brain had been taken up with the conundrum of convincing John that he was, indeed, a fraud. A dead fraud – this was imperative. John had to believe this in order to survive.

Ah. John.

Despite his disgust directed towards himself because of this – the thought of doing this _thing_ he had to do – this living without John, working on cases without him there to worry about him, feed him, make sure he was at least partially tending to his basic bodily needs – made him terrified to the point of vomiting.

_You lived for 33 years without him, Sherlock,_ He reminded himself. _You don't need him. You don't need _anyone.

Very true – Sherlock Holmes was independent, and had been for a very large proportion of his life. So why should he feel now that he needs to be looked after? The Great Sherlock Holmes-World's-Only-Consulting-Detective can look after himself, thank you very much.

Sighing, he ran his long fingers through his dark curly hair, scrubbing his knuckles against his skull in frustration. The sooner he could walk properly again the better. He could _feel_ his brain rotting with every passing second he was wrapped in gauze in Molly's flat. The sooner Miss. Hooper deemed him fit enough to go chasing criminals cross-country, the sooner he could close this goddamned case for good and go home. _Go back to John you mean. _Came a snide voice from inside his head. _Shut up, _He retorted.

He continued The Game out of necessity now, not pleasure. It wasn't fun anymore. He _had_ enjoyed it at first - the puzzles, the excitement, and the sheer lunacy of his clever opponent – but he'd let it go far, which was an inexcusable failure on his part. By letting his desire for danger and a chance to feed his own ego and prove his brilliance, he had endangered everyone he had any semblance of affection for; and so he had to fix it. Make it safe. Make them safe. _Make _John _safe. _Said the voice again. _Will you shut _up?! He shouted at himself, self-loathing burning the blood in his veins.

He tried to occupy himself with safer topics, and examined the extent of his injuries. He may have landed into a laundry lorry, but Good _God_ it had hurt. He pressed gingerly the blood pooling under his pale skin that created a huge, angry purple bruise that stained his ribs; trying to remember what exactly had caused it.

It was large and rectangular in its shape, making him look like he'd been beaten with a wide metal paddle. He remembered smashing up against the inside wall of the laundry cart as he'd bounced after his initial impact with the bedding. It had been swift and painful, sending his body aflame with a pain that still burned and ached even lying still and prone on Molly's bed. He found his mind wandering back to what John would say if he saw such a bruise.

"_What the hell have you been doing to yourself you bloody idiot? Can you not just be safe for the minute that I can't see you? Is It really too hard for you?" _ Sherlock frowned and replying to the John in his head, he said,

"_No, John, I can't be safe. The only way I will be truly safe from others – and admittedly, myself – is at home with you, watching the most terrible, awful, atrociously bad telly together and drinking tea. But we can't go back to that until I finish The Game. Or die trying." _He frowned at his imagined melodramatic answer. Sherlock knew that he would never have used those words if he were actually talking to John. It would be unwise to be so upfront about his intentions towards his work – his friend wouldn't have approved.

As it was, Sherlock heard John's chuckle in his head and an image popped up behind his eyes – not unwelcome, but not intentional. It was a familiar image of John pouring over his laptop, a small smile making his dark blue eyes sparkle with amusement; it was the face he had when he was writing up cases on his blog. He liked that face; it was adorable in an illogical way – it made his friend look like an excited child. A wave of sadness gripped Sherlock, and he closed his eyes feeling almost heavy inside. It was not a feeling he was very familiar with, but the sensation reminded him of the twinge he felt when he upset or disappointed his flatmate without meaning to. Guilt – his brain unhelpfully supplied.

From behind his closed lids, the John in his head looked up at Sherlock his smile fading. "You jumped." He said simply, helpless frustration filling his eyes. Sherlock felt himself nod, his head brushing on the back of Molly's headboard – further proof that this scene playing behind his eyes wasn't real – but he didn't open his eyes, unwilling to let this vision dissipate.

"Not good?" He whispered into the empty room, to his imagined friend. John shook his head behind Sherlock's eyes.

"Bit 'Not good', yeah." A sad smile warmed John's face, and his eyes softened. "Sherlock… You need to sleep. You're tired, and you have a long, hard trek ahead. I will be furious if you kill yourself after all that by forgetting to look after yourself." Sherlock felt himself pout; he didn't want John to go, not yet.

"I don't want to sleep." He protested quietly. As if John could read his mind – _of course he read your mind, he's _in_ your mind, madman._

_Shut up. You're ruining it. _

"I'll be waiting there for you, you don't have to worry." Sherlock's eyebrows pulled down in confusion,

"What? Where?"

"In your sleep, genius. Maybe that will give you incentive to rest." John smirked, the familiar amusement back in his eyes, and gave a jolly wave before starting to fade.

"NO – John!" He shouted into the empty room, raising his arm as if to grab him but – of course – there was no one there. Sherlock let his head drop into his hands, this wasn't healthy or logical at all. If he was imagining flatmates that weren't there, what's next? Imagining furniture were foes? He should be committed.

For a fleeting second he considered talking to Molly about it, but then burning shame flushed his skin and suddenly – for no reason at all – he felt weak. No he shouldn't confide in Molly, the silly girl cared about him too much, and she would only worry about him, possibly, she would even tell John; and that would lead to disaster. She might even refuse to let him go, and consequently, he would spend more time on the case – away from John.

No, he couldn't tell Molly. So now he had to be what John believed him to be – a heartless machine. A computer programme with only one function – to destroy Moriarty's network for good

He started when the door clicked open, watching Molly's head peaking around the door. "Sherlock?" She asked, concern in her voice. She heard his shout, Sherlock deduced. He stared straight and unabashed into her eyes and deadpanned,

"Nightmare." And with that, he slumped down on his bed and pushed his head into his pillow in an attempt to avoid her questions. Fortunately, she understood the unsubtle hint and whispered,

"If you need anything, you know where to find me."

"Why would I need you?" He snapped, almost automatically, and her resulting sigh was imperceptible.

"I have no idea." She muttered as she left. She didn't close the door completely though, which made Sherlock sigh in frustration, but now he was buried in the sheets, he realised exactly how tired he was. He was _exhausted_. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy with every passing second, and any attempt to keep them open caused them to water profusely. After a few minutes, he gave up on the fight with his eyelids with a grumpy mumble before settling down into his pillow.

His eyes opened, bleary and confused as he felt the bed tip slightly beside him and an arm wrap around his waist. Sherlock froze, unable to move. The arm was too thick to be Molly's, and he was sure she wouldn't ever have the courage to slide into bed with him without his express permission, but the touch was gentle and almost familiar, though he was sure he'd never been embraced like this since university.

Sherlock rolled over quickly, shoving the arm off from around his waist as he flipped in the bed to see the owner of the arms. His mind went blank with shock to find John's face scowling at him, inches away, breathing hot, sweet air into his face.

"John… w-what are you d-d-doing here?" He stammered, frowning at himself. He _never_ stammered, _ever – _unless of course it was intentional. But this was no ploy. So why could he not control the tremble in his voice?

John's frown deepened and he lifted a hand to press a finger into the quivering corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Why that face, Sherlock? What's wrong? You have another nightmare?" Sherlock's eyebrows lowered even further, confusion filling his face. He heard his voice quake as he replied,

"I… I don't know." John's weathered face filled with sympathy, and his fingers moved to gently comb through his curls, making low soothing sounds in his throat. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to pull away.

"Its okay, Sherlock, it was only a dream. Just a bad dream." Sherlock swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

"John… John, I – I don't understand, I –" John cut him off by pressing a finger softly to his lips.

"Shush now, Sherlock, its over. I'm here. I'll always be here."

"But – Why?" He mumbled around John's fingers. A chuckle rasped low in John's chest, he could feel it vibrating the bed.

"Because I love you, Genius." John removed his finger and replaced them with his mouth.

Sherlock couldn't breathe. His mind raging with thoughts he couldn't fully comprehend. His fingers itched, his heart twitched and jumped unfamiliarly against his ribs and he felt his breathing hitch and quicken, drawing in oxygen with frantic gasps.

His reaction was ridiculous. The kiss was chaste – almost unbearably so – but the gentle press of John's lips on his sent shivering sensations all across his skin. His eyes closed automatically and his mouth fell open slightly; he felt like he was drowning in the feelings that were assaulting his body.

When their lips parted, John's mouth was barely millimetres away from his, breathing hot air across Sherlock's face like a caress, soft and intimate. Sherlock couldn't open his eyes, irrationally fearing this apparition would dissipate – so they were still, breathing into each other's mouths, their lips scarcely touching. His heart felt like heavy in his chest, like it had suddenly transformed into lead, and he almost groaned with pleasure when John took initiative and closed the infinitesimal space between their mouths. This time Sherlock reciprocated, actively pressing his lips against John's, unwinding his hands from the sheets and slipping them around his friend's waist.

He hadn't known he had wanted this. If he did, he was pretty sure he would have taken it a thousand times over by now. He cursed his own tremendous stupidity between kisses – how on _earth_ could he have missed _this?_

John chuckled gently and Sherlock's heart jumped and skipped in response, and he gave in to the urge to deepen the kiss, thrusting his tongue into John's mouth, crowding in his space. John's laugh quickly turned into a moan, but the smile still remained on his lips and he curled his tongue around Sherlock's. The kiss intensified further, becoming fast and desperate and soon Sherlock found himself pressed into the mattress with John hovering over him, a stupid grin stretching across his face.

Sherlock could feel his erection hot and tight in his trousers, demanding his attention. He had repressed these impulses for years, unwilling to acknowledge their existence after Wilkes had effectively showed him that people couldn't be trusted. But here – struggling to think with John's face, suffused with affection, hovering inches from his – he found himself surrendering to the yearning desire to have John in his arms, touching him, to have John's strong, capable fingers running through his hair…

Those fingers were currently meandering down Sherlock's chest, brushing and his nipples through his tee shirt as they passed, eliciting a shameless moan from the depths of Sherlock's chest. The touch was impossibly light, teasing, and Sherlock found himself arcing into it, seeking more friction.

John' hand wandered downwards leisurely, pausing in its mission only to trace light, soothing patterns into the skin on his stomach, sending maddening shivery waves of blood pulsing to his libido every time a calloused finger strayed towards the soft skin just above the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Sherlock – who by this time grappled to hold onto at least a semblance of coherent thought – groaned aloud at John's teasing, his body quivering with the desire to be touched. It was a wish he had not had in a long, long time.

Soon though, John seemed to need more than the sight of Sherlock squirm and twist under his light touches, and his hand – finally – delved into the sticky heat of Sherlock's underwear, grasping his cock in a firm, glorious hold.

"JOHN." Sherlock yelled as he jerked upward, sitting bolt upright in the bed, staring perplexed and frustrated at the empty room surrounding him. His mind was reeling; scents, sounds, images and sensations filling his head like a swarm of bees; loud and insistent.

He was vaguely aware of the sweat rolling down his back, his breath coming in sharp gasps. Instead, he fought the fight-or-flight response he received upon hearing Molly's footsteps race up the corridor. He considered how he would look to her and winced. He was a state, he was well aware of that fact – just as he was aware of his dishevelled hair and wild eyes, which watered traitorously. He dropped his head in his hands to hide his unstable expression from Molly before it could expose him. Only then did he notice the raging erection tenting the sheets in his lap.

Oh Shit.

He heard Molly barge through the door and he dropped his hands to his lap, hiding his arousal, embarrassment and shame burning his face. This was a new experience, one he wished he could delete from his memory. Right _now._

"Sherlock? What's wrong? Are you okay? I heard-" She stopped suddenly catching sight of his blush, and cast an appraising gaze over his position, with a slight frown. Sherlock should have given her more credit, she was better at observing than he previously realised – he'd underestimated her drastically in very way it seemed. Within seconds the frown had cleared, being replaced with sympathy and a slight warming of her cheeks.

"Oh, Sherlock…" She murmured. He winced as sympathy filled her voice, making it sound like sugar, unbearably sweet. Sickening.

"Don't." He said shortly, turning his eyes down to his lap. He didn't want – didn't _need_ – her pity. She made her way over to the bed, hesitating momentarily before sitting down next to him. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, moving surreptitiously away from her, cringing slightly, which she either chose to ignore or didn't notice.

"Sherlock, it's okay you know," She took a deep breath, "It's a natural… re-reaction, and – and J-John is-"

"Molly, what did I say about small talk?" He interjected; he didn't want to talk about this. That… _dream_ (he made the word sound disgusting, even in his head), was a one off. Wouldn't be repeated. _Ever._

She persisted, just like she had in the lab. "I know you don't – you don't think _like that_. But-"

"Molly." He warned, yet still she continued, stumbling over what exactly she wanted to say.

"But, Sherlock, you can't- l-let the fact that, uh, uhm, you're having these… _feelings – _stop you from doing- letting him know you're alive. I know-I know its what you – you _want_ and-"

"Molly, what I want and what I have to do are mutually exclusive concepts. They cannot exist together in any way. And also, _this_ is not the reason I am not – and will not – tell him I am alive. Yet." She remained silent, just watching him fiddle with the bed sheets for a moment. He started to feel – if it was even possible – more uncomfortable by the silence.

"Did you tell him?" Sherlock looked up at this, started by her uncharacteristically steady tone.

"Tell him what?"

"About _this_" She gestured emphatically at where his softening member was hiding, giving him a long, hard, almost accusatory glare.

Sherlock frowned and closed his eyes, giving a long-suffering sigh, a derisive edge bleeding into his voice. "This was the first time. So, in answer to your question, no I did not tell him." She gave him an odd look.

"First time? Ever? You- you've never dreamed of him before?" He mirrored her expression perfectly.

"Should I have?" She frowned, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

"I just thought…" She trailed off at the look Sherlock gave her.

"Well don't." He snapped, his body automatically tensing for the elbow John was going to dig in his ribs for his rudeness. He felt oddly off balance when it never came. Wincing, he glanced down at Molly, who was studiously not looking at him. This wasn't fair to her and he knew it; it wasn't fair to any of them. They didn't deserve this – but it was out of his hands now.

"I'm sorry, Molly." He muttered, the apology leaving his lips reluctantly; after all, he may be dead, but he was still himself. "I just-" He didn't finish the thought; it wasn't necessary. He didn't even know what he wanted to say.

Sherlock frowned at her knowing smile, "He's changed you; it's good." She added in quickly in response to his sharp look. "Its just- I never thought you'd be nice and, well –"

"Thank you, Molly." He sighed.

"Well, I'll just-" She gestured towards the door before making a move towards it. Pausing at the door, she turned hesitating momentarily. "When do you think- um – when do you think you'll be finished?" Sherlock's eyes fell, staring into his lap, a lump rising in his throat.

Swallowing it down, he shrugged. "I don't know." There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before she replied, her voice thick.

"Then you should get started tomorrow," he looked up, surprise in his eyes, "and if you get killed out there, I swear… I'll-I'll… I'll sell your body on Ebay!" The tension broke with her words, and Sherlock chuckled softly, remembering why he had put up with her all these years.

"Goodnight, Molly." He murmured as she left, shutting him in the darkness alone.

In years gone by, he wouldn't have minded being alone – in fact, two years ago he would have much preferred it that way. The freedom to do what he liked was a rare privilege for him, what with Mycroft and Mummy's incessant worrying. Even all those years ago, when he moved out of his Mother's house, Mycroft set up surveillance wherever he was staying. No amount of asking, cajoling or screaming would deter Mycroft from watching Sherlock's every movement.

So the day after his graduation from university, he dropped everything and left – feeling it was better to live on the streets of London than to be watched and tracked everywhere he went. It was there; scrounging for food and drink, where he honed his skills to perfection, studied the minds of people, recognized trends in thought, emotion and actions. He wandered with the criminals and the rejects of society and analysed them, found what it was like to be hungry, cold and penniless.

The dynamics of London's Underbelly was very different than that of civilised society. Sherlock thought that the way the street-folk interacted with each other was similar to animal behaviour. There was a hierarchy that was unshakeable, and if you tried to break the status quo, you were brutally reminded where exactly the power lay.

Sherlock was always trying to upset the balance. He tested boundaries, pushed buttons and mouthed off to the wrong people – in fact, he became well known for it. More often than not, this behaviour would result in Sherlock having to steal medical supplies from small GP surgeries to tend to his wounds alone (he refused to go to hospitals in fear that Mycroft would know exactly where he was and force him home).

Soon though, Sherlock grew tired of trying to break the system, and became bored and restless. The adrenaline rush he received from his frequent beatings quickly became insufficient stimulus to occupy his acute mind, and despite sleeping with three or four other strangers at night, his mind started to crave the company and comforts of home.

But his ill feelings towards his meddling brother were too strong – and rather than go back to the insufferable idiot and their mother, he pursued different ways of engage his unruly thoughts. And so he turned to the blessed miracle that was cocaine.

Sherlock twitched in Molly's bed at the recollections of his past. This was something he had done everything to try and repress, but, infuriatingly, the memories seemed etched into his hard drive, something he could not delete (not for lack of trying).

Automatically, his fingers reached to trace the scars in the crook of his elbow, which were a physical reminder of his lengthy drug abuse. Cocaine hadn't come too soon for Sherlock; it had been the perfect remedy for his dangerous habit of rubbing hardened criminals up the wrong way – most of the time. But every medicine had its price, and it was only a matter of time before Sherlock came dependent – desperately seeking his next high like a parched man might search for water in a desert. Truthfully, the drug wasn't all that hard to get hold of, but for Sherlock, every comedown felt like he was drowning, and searching for oxygen – and it only got worse.

In a matter of months, Sherlock was constantly high, wasting the precious money he expertly pick-pocketed out of stranger's wallets on the drug; no longer relying on anything as dull as food or water to sustain his body and, soon enough, he started wasting away until Mycroft eventually found him (as Sherlock was always too toasted to be careful about concealing his whereabouts) and chucked him into rehab. Then the process would – inevitably – start all over again.

The cycle continued for little under seven years.

That was until he shored up, at twenty-eight years old, high as a kite, at the crime scene of a serial rapist/murderer and passed out at the feet of a newly appointed Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

Sherlock sighed and scrubbed his eyes with his fist. He kind of missed the grumpy Detective Inspector – though not nearly as much as he missed John – and didn't exactly relish the thought of spending the next indeterminable amount of time without his oddly amusing stupidity. But it had to be done - Preferably _quickly._

He would start tomorrow.

_I'll be home soon, John, I promise. You won't be too lonely without me; in fact, I'm sure you'll wake up tomorrow and be right as rain; you're old cheery, if slightly irritating self._

But John never wanted to wake up ever, ever again.


	3. Chapter 2

John stood at the door of 221B Baker Street, gazing at the emptiness that was his flat. He stared purely because it _was empty – _empty of the trademark clutter that marked the presence of the late Sherlock Holmes.

He barely recognized the place.

Sherlock's science equipment – which usually filled every available surface in the kitchen – was packed in boxes that were currently lined along the wall of the hallway. John was supposed to be taking the various pieces of apparatus to some under-funded high school, but he found he couldn't quite bring himself to let them go.

The severed limbs and various other disgusting body parts his flatmate kept around were all safely back in St. Bart's morgue under Molly Hooper's expert care.

There was only two pieces of evidence that Sherlock ever lived at 221B, and that was the smiley face; spray painted on the wall with the same yellow, zinc based paint used by the Chinese smugglers during the 'Blind Banker' Case. The face was still peppered with bullet holes – a souvenir of one of Sherlock's fits of boredom.

That and the violin; which stood as an elegant reminder that the world's only Consulting Detective was dead. It lay in Sherlock's leather armchair, where it had remained untouched since the day it was flung there as Detective Inspector Lestrade arrested it's owner for 'fraud'.

It was funny how one of the most satisfying experiences of John's life had been punching Lestrade's boss in the face. Strangely enough, in the aftermath of Sherlock's suicide, the police had decided to ignore John's brash behaviour and hadn't come knocking on his door – though he was pretty sure that Mycroft was involved in that somehow.

Thinking of Mycroft had reminded him about That Day (as he'd come to calling it in his head), not three hours after his flatmate had jumped; John had just stumbled home and collapsed in a heap of breathless, tearless grief, when Mycroft had strode straight past him – seemingly, from out of nowhere – and into the kitchen, where he placed a thick police issue case file onto a counter. Mycroft had hovered for a moment, fidgeting (his usual calm façade was lacking the perfect stillness it always included – but his face had remained as cool as ever).

When it became clear John wasn't going to move from his spot on the floor, save for tilting his head to stare at Mycroft, the latter sighed and rubbed his hand down his face, suddenly looking years older before tapping a finger against the file and muttering, "You should read it. It might be enlightening." Before striding out the door, without any of his usual dramatics.

After a minute or two, curiosity had started to get the better of him, and he'd heaved himself off the floor to investigate. The file was somewhat thicker than most he'd seen, but from a distance it seemed like a complete documentary of someone's life – medical records and birth certificates included. He was proven right when he caught sight of the name written in an untidy scrawl in the top right hand corner.

_Sherlock Holmes._

The moment John had realised what it was, he'd flinched like it had physically burned him. He'd known what Mycroft had just given him – the proof that Sherlock Holmes wasn't a sham. It was his true-life story, rather than the unadulterated bullshit that Moriarty had sold to the newspapers.

But he couldn't bring himself to read it. It wasn't like he wasn't curious – Good God, the desire to learn more about Sherlock's mysterious past had been almost overwhelming – but he just… couldn't. John felt that by reading it, it would be betraying his trust, crossing the boundary of 'A Bit Not Good' so irreversibly, that there was no way he could justify it to himself.

'_But he's dead, what harm can it do?' _His selfish side pointed out.

In reality, it was equal parts guilt, and equal part fear. He was terrified of what he might find in that folder, and scared it would change his opinion of the younger Holmes; he didn't want that at all. He wanted Sherlock to forever be the unconventional, unwilling hero with bad manners and an unshakable stubborn streak. He didn't want that to change.

Of course he didn't think Sherlock had manipulated or deceived him as the papers suggested; he knew there were just parts of his past that nobody – save his brother – knew, and he'd felt uncomfortable sharing them with anyone, even John.

John didn't hold it against him – he'd barely told Sherlock anything about his life before the war either; though he'd probably deduced most of it anyway, the nosy bastard.

So he'd fled the room without even touching the file, fearing that if he did, the temptation to peak would become overwhelming and he would defy his semi-honourable thoughts by reading it anyway. But still, even in a different room he could hear it calling out to him.

Now two weeks later, the urge just as strong.

With a snarl, he dug his phone out of his pocket and punched the call button.

He answered after the first ring.

"John." Mycroft greeted. He sounded neither surprised nor like he was expecting his call; his tone, like his personality, was unreadable.

"Get it out."

"John?" It was a question this time.

"No." he said sternly "No, don't. Just get it out. I don't want it here." The long-suffering sigh that came from the phone only made him angrier.

"John." was all he said. It sounded like a reproach, and John waited for more. When Mycroft didn't elaborate, he exhaled sharply in irritation; it came out like a growl.

"No, Mycroft. You do not get to do this. I know you only tolerated me because your brother seemed to like me, but you have no reason to bother with me anymore, so take your damn file and leave me ALONE."

The silence that followed that little outburst was tense and palpable. John could almost taste Mycroft's disapproval through the phone.

"And what, may I ask, would you have me do?" He asked, his voice quiet, reminding John of the calm before a storm.

"Excuse me?" The sigh that followed spoke clearly of the elder Holmes' growing irritation.

"I cannot just _send _Sherlock's whole medical and personal history to the press. That would be extremely unwise given activities he indulged in, in past years. Therefore, the information has to be selected, and you would have greater knowledge into what would be the most appropriate to disclose.

"Nor can I send the required information from an anonymous tip; they would never trust the source and discredit the information." John could hear the disdain leaking from Mycroft's voice, "Neither can I reveal to the general public that I am, in fact, his brother; that could potentially have dangerous consequences for not only my job, but the populace's trust in the British government."

John smirked and muttered, "We don't trust you anyhow." Mycroft chose to ignore that comment.

"And finally, even if I did choose to go public with the information that I am the infamous 'Reichenbach Hero's' sibling; who is going to believe a grieving brother who has the power to falsify records?"

John couldn't help the cutting remark that he supplied in response to that question. "I thought you held only 'A minor position in the British Government'?" He heard Mycroft's chuckle, but it sounded far from amused.

"John, surely even _you_ know by now that that isn't entirely true." John sighed, and steered the conversation back to where he wanted it.

"And who would believe the grieving friend?"

"Everyone." The word sounded sad, as if he'd summed up everything he wanted to say in those three syllables. Sighing, John scrubbed his free hand through his hair.

"I still do not want it."

"John, you shoul-"

"No, Mycroft." His tone was final. Even the British Government couldn't argue when Captain John Watson decided to make his entrance.

"What, then, should I do to clear his name? This was… my fault. I want to fix it." John wanted to point out to him that the situation was beyond being fixed; that Sherlock was dead and there was nothing any of them could possibly do about it. But the doctor in him forbade it, compassion ruling out his anger.

"Try Greg Lestrade. He'll help you. Now, I'm going out. I want that file gone when I get back."

There was a small sigh on the end of the line. " Yes, Doctor Watson." John nodded to himself and was about the end the call when he heard Mycroft speak again.

"Thank you, John. For everything you did for my brother. He would not have stayed alive as long as he did if you were not…" He trailed off, his collected air wavering.

"Goodnight, Mycroft."

"I will pick up the file personally. It will be gone within the hour. Goodnight, John."

"Thank you." John answered tersely before hanging up.

Now he was alone in the flat, he was at a loss for what to do. He'd told Mycroft he was going out, but in reality he would rather lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. However, his desire to not see Mycroft or any of his minions was overwhelming, so he picked up his coat with a grumble and marched out of the flat, hunching in the frigid air.

He wandered around for a while, his thoughts growing darker and more miserable with the temperature drop as night started to surround him. He knew he should find somewhere to warm up soon, but he didn't feel like going home just yet.

Determined to at least make some use out of his little excursion, he straightened his shoulders, at least pretending to feel like the military man he used to be, rather than the old man he seemed to have become overnight, and marched in the direction of his favourite pub.

It took him five minutes to reach the familiar little building he'd frequented every time Sherlock had angered him so much he couldn't bear to stay in the flat with him. He'd become quite the regular since moving in with Sherlock. So really, the stares he got when he entered the pub shouldn't have surprised him.

Mercifully, no one said anything, but offered him consoling nods of the head or touches on the arm as he passed. His mood had sunk considerably more since entering the pub, and he didn't think he could bear one more pitying glance.

The bartender – Joe, was his name – however, just glanced at him with an appraising eye, and poured him a whiskey without John asking for it. He accepted the drink gratefully, thanking him silently for his indifference.

He slumped heavily in a stool next to a young man nursing a pint, and gazing dolefully into its contents. The man looked nearly as bad as he felt, John mused, glancing at Joe to glean any information about the stranger. Joe just shrugged however, and turned back to cleaning his glasses.

John decided that perhaps he would forget his own troubles for tonight, if he immersed himself in the ones of others. "Hey mate."

Starting slightly, the young man turned a pair of large hazel eyes onto him; as if he hadn't notice him sat next to him. "Hello." He replied; despite his melancholy expression, curiosity burned in his voice.

"I hope you don't mind me saying, but you look a little down." He said, flashing him a smile. He was careful not to show any sympathy right now, remembering how similar looks from others had riled him.

Smiling sadly, the man turned his eyes back down to his pint and murmured, "Yeah, I am a bit. I could say the same for you."

He was young, barely out of his twenties with shoulder length, caramel coloured hair that was tied loosely at the nape of his neck. His skin was a smooth dusty brown shade – Italian? John wondered – but his accent was clear, a little plumy, and very English. Something about the soft tones of his voice reminded him of something, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what.

John just smiled and inclined his head, before studying his own glass. "You could say that." Sighing, he turned back to the man and offered a hand. "John Watson."

The man smiled and shook it. His grip was strong and steady, John noticed as long dark fingers squeezed his own. "Sebastian Moran." He greeted, and then suddenly, he frowned. "John Watson? As in, Doctor John Watson? From the newspapers?" John groaned internally, maybe this had been a terrible idea.

Smiling tightly, he nodded "The very same." The man appraised John for a moment, but there was no sympathy to be found in his face. John got the feeling he was being sized up.

"You don't seem like the kind of person one could fool easily." Moran commented.

"I'm not." He replied, his voice a little harsh, earning another appraising look from the other man.

"Don't worry, I have no room for any pity directed anyone but myself right now, so you're safe with me. After all, we both seem to be here for the same reason." This surly admission piqued John's interest; perhaps Moran would distract him from his depression after all.

"Sorry?" Moran smiled, the gloomy look coming back into his eyes.

"My friend, he's dead too. Suicide. He was before yours though. Still, its hard to get over it y'know?" John nodded; eyes returning to his glass, just listening to Sebastian talk more to himself than to John. "I don't know why he did it, I thought he had everything under control. I thought he was fine… Although, he was never a very stable person to begin with, so I guess 'fine' would be subjective. It was just…" He trailed off, sniffling.

"What was his name?" John asked trying to steer the conversation towards a direction that reminded him less of his own friend buried beneath a headstone.

"Jamie. James." The young man sighed and dipped a finger in his pint before licking it off. "Dunno how on Earth I've managed this far without him." John nodded, understanding the feeling completely.

"How is his family taking it?" This earned John a snort and a sideways glance.

"He didn't have any. They were killed when he was seventeen; brutal homicide, he told me. He said there was blood everywhere… said it looked like a masterpiece." John tried not to be disturbed by the fascination in Moran's voice. The young man wasn't fooled though, and shot him a sheepish glance.

"Sorry, I'm a psychology graduate," he explained, "Mind's like Jamie's intrigue me. It's the minds that seem slightly… off. Call it morbid curiosity." He chuckled.

John smiled tightly, "Oh God, you're a therapist aren't you?" He joked half-heartedly. _If he _is_ a therapist,_ John mused, _I bet he's having a bloody field day._

"Oh, God, no." Moran laughed, well at least _his _mood seemed to be lifting, John thought venomously. He was surprised at himself; he had never been the one for bitterness, and the fact he was displaying all the symptoms of being a cranky old man made John slightly anxious.

"No, no. I went to university and studied it, but could never find a job. So I went into the army." This perked John up a little.

"Really? I'm a military man myself." Moran nodded, his eyes brightening a little.

"Medical yeah? I read your blog a couple of times. RAMC?" John nodded an affirmative.

"Trained at Bart's, originally just to be a doctor. I guess after I got my degree I just wanted a piece of the action, so I joined the army."

"Officer?"

"Christ, no. I was a soldier through and through. Couldn't stand not to be on the front line doing my bit, so I signed up as a Combat Medical Technician. Of course, it was being in the front line that got me shot." He grumbled, running his fingers through his hair. It was getting a little long now and was probably due a cut. Not that he could be bothered anymore.

Sebastian nodded gravely, taking a deep chug of his beer before saying: "I heard you were a crack shot? Where does an army doctor learn to shoot like you do?" John threw him a sheepish look.

"I wasn't just used for my skills with a scalpel; after 3 years, the higher powers took an interest in me." He really shouldn't have been speaking about it, but at present, John couldn't really give a fuck. This man had been the only stranger who'd taken an interest in _him_ rather than his dead best friend.

Sebastian nodded, a knowing look in his eyes. "So what about you?" John asked, "What corps were you stationed in?" Moran sighed and tugged at his ponytail, throwing John an awkward look.

"I don't like talking about my army days, sorry." John nodded; that was relatively normal among army men – some things were better not remembered. John had had a few days like that too. It looked like _That Day_ was going to be among those days too. "So… do you mind me asking you something?" Sebastian continued after a slightly awkward moment.

John nodded slowly, unsure where this was going. "You and Holmes, were you, like, a thing?" Moran laughed at John's bemused expression. "You know? Together?" Catching on to what he was talking about, John heaved a sigh. Okay, trying to explain his sexual preferences to a complete stranger were not on his list of things to do tonight.

"No. I'm not gay. I don't know why everyone seems to think I am." Moran gave him a puzzled, almost searching look. "What?"

"Well… you do kinda' make it sound like it on your blog."

"My blog?"

"Yeah. You were always saying how amazing he was; you made him sound like the desirable male hero in a controversial Victorian novel." He chuckled.

"I did not!" John argued feeling mildly affronted. "He was just a friend - a complete nutter, but a very good friend." He sighed, emotion eating away at his chest. He felt dissatisfied, as if this explanation wasn't enough; so he continued. "I don't know, I guess. He _was _amazing, you know? He was so clever and exciting but sometimes… he could get too much. He was just… _infuriating._ He wouldn't eat or sleep, insisting it interfered with his brainpower – what a load of bullshit!

"And he was just so _mean_ to some people you know? He never thought about other people beyond what information they could give him. He would manipulate people in their weakest moments to prise clues out of them and sometimes it made me think, yeah, he's a sociopath.

"But then… there were times when he wasn't like that at all… I mean he showed affection for people! Mrs. Hudson being one of them, and for all his complaining about Greg's stupidity, I think he was fond of Lestrade too. Thinking about it… he was never purposefully mean to me either unless we were in the middle of an argument. Even then, there would always be a look in his eye – only for a second, and a lot of the times I missed it, it was that fast – but he'd seem like he was guilty about upsetting me you know?

"But why on earth he would claim to be a sociopath – no, my mistake, a _high-functioning _sociopath – when he could actually feel things for people is beyond me." John hung his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the bar. " I guess now I'll never find out. Oh God, I miss him. I do. I miss the body parts in the fridge, and the violin at three o'clock in the fucking morning. People hated him, and I can see why; he was kind of like marmite in that respect. But I didn't hate him, not at all! He angered me, and upset me and was _definitely_ a pain in the arse sometimes, but he was a great man. He was a good man. There is no way he lied to me. No way in hell. Oh God, how will I manage without him?" He groaned into his hands.

Moran had remained silent throughout his rant, just listening intently. Somehow, John felt slightly unnerved by the waves of emotion coming from this man; he couldn't quite work out exactly what it was. But suddenly, he felt on edge and confused as his brain screamed _'Get out!' _at him.

Swallowing, he raised his head to stare at the other man, as if waiting for a response. What he found there only increased his growing unease. Moran was watching him, his hazel eyes steady and unconcerned; but there was an undercurrent of fascination – which wasn't worrying in itself, but John sensed a predatory longing beneath the mild gaze, and it scared him.

"Perhaps he wanted to keep his heart to himself; once burned, twice shy as they say? Perhaps he didn't want to get burned again." Moran suggested softly.

'_Burned. Burned!' _his brain screamed at him. He was taken back to the night at the pool, and Moriarty's words _"I'll burn the _heart_ out of you." _No. No, he was being silly. Perhaps this stranger just got the proverb wrong. It was easily done.

'_It's a coincidence, John. Stop being an idiot.' _His mind told him, imitating Sherlock's disdainful drawl excellently.

Illogical fear rose in John's chest, and he struggled to keep himself calm as he hummed an acknowledgement and checked his watch.

"Oh God, look at the time! I'd best be off." _'Is that the best you can do?! Pathetic attempt, Watson!' _He scolded himself. He could have sworn he saw Moran smirk.

"Oh, yeah, it is late isn't it? I think I'll go home too. I'm no use moping around here. Let me walk you to the door." John grimaced internally, but made no protest as they exited into the chilly night.

"Take care of yourself." John murmured, trying to sound as casual as he could manage.

"Yeah, you too. Watch out for yourself, John." Was he just imagining it, ordid that sound like threat?

John nodded tersely before turning his back on Moran, walking as fast as he could without looking like he was fleeing. He no longer cared if Mycroft was still in the flat when he got back; the sooner he was in 221B with the door locked and bolted, the sooner he would feel safe again. But then again, he had the sneaking feeling that he wouldn't be completely safe without Sherlock around. He whimpered and pulled his coat tighter around him, sheltering partly from the cold air and partly from the fierce, hazel eyes he swore he could feel burning a hole in his back.

oOo

Sebastian Moran watched as his target all but ran from where he stood, contemplating his next step. So the night hadn't entirely gone as planned – no matter. It was clear John Watson had worked out that he was a threat – child's play for a military man – but how much he had deduced remained to be seen. It seemed Jim had underestimated the doctor's intelligence, but the miscalculation wasn't too major; Sebastian was sure he didn't know of his connection to Jim Moriarty.

Usually, Sebastian would roll his eyes at any suggestion of dramatic flair or _games_ in his kills. No, he was far too practical for that; but he took solace in the fact that this was different. This was personal. He would kill John Watson in the cruellest, vilest, most cunning and clever way possible. He would continue Jim Moriarty's legacy in this one last hit, and close this case for good.

You see Sebastian wanted revenge. He _craved_ it. This man, John Watson, was like his mirror image – just as Sherlock Holmes and Jim were mirror images of each other. And Sebastian _hated _John for it. Yes, both he and John Watson had been left behind, alone and unsure in the 'Big Bad World', but Sebastian felt nothing but jealousy for the other man. He had no more or less that Sebastian had, oh no. But unlike Jim, Sherlock had actually _cared _for his 'pet'; and Sebastian did not like that – Jim had treated him like he was replaceable, which was fine – But if _he_ didn't deserve a geniuses attention, then nor should that dull, pining cripple.

Things that Sebastian didn't like usually didn't stay around for long.

Unfortunately for him, he would have to be patient. If Watson were to be murdered so soon after Holmes' death, then it would ruin all of Jim's hard work in ruining the detective's reputation.

Soon, there would be no more interfering Detectives (that was taken care of spectacularly by Jim himself) and no more meddling doctors. Oh, what a sweet existence that would be.

He watched John's retreating back with a cruel twist to his lips.

"Until next time, Doctor Watson." He whispered, watching the trail of mist curl from his warm mouth with a predatory anticipation.

oOo

Greg shouldered his way into his tiny flat – which was all he could afford after the divorce – tired and cursing. Sure, he'd gotten his job back, but The Chief Superintendent had seen to it that he had so much paperwork, that he couldn't actually get out into the field. Lestrade knew it was intentional, but there was little he could do about it until the court case.

Yawning, he scrubbed his tired eyes whilst hanging up his coat. He could really do with a nice cold beer and a bit of crap telly right now, but instead - as he had been doing every night for the past month - he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and called John.

And true to tradition, the doctor didn't answer. Greg left the usual: "Hey, John. It's me. Listen, you really need to call me; I'm worried about you. I know I haven't exactly been a good friend to you or Sherlock, but you have to call me back, John, please? Alright. Have a good night" on the voicemail service before chucking the blasted thing onto the end table in the hallway.

Grumbling at his miserable excuse for a life, he strolled into the kitchen and towards the fridge, already anticipating the night of reality TV shows and a Chinese.

When he turned away from the fridge, a bottle of Stella in hand, he was faced with a sight he had no desire to see.

Standing propped against the pathetic excuse for a kitchen table was a long black umbrella, which somehow managed to be elegant despite it's setting. It wasn't the first time Greg had found this particular umbrella in his kitchen, but it was such a rare sight – and surprising due to recent events – that it was enough to shock Lestrade into silence for a moment.

However, Greg prided himself on being fairly unflappable due to all his years working in the force alongside Sherlock Holmes, so it didn't take him all that long to recover.

"Evening, Mycroft." He called into the living room, whilst reaching back into the fridge for another beer.

"How did you get in this time?" He greeted as he strode into lounge (if you could call it that), "No, wait, don't tell me. I really don't want to know." He laughed bitterly, placing the second beer on the coffee table in front of Mycroft.

As was standard for a Holmes, Mycroft was dressed impeccably, with a stunningly understated steel grey jacket and waistcoat number with matching trousers. His hair was combed with not a hair out of place, even though it was approaching ten o'clock at night. Mycroft gave the drink a look of disgust.

"What in God's name is that?" He asked, his nose wrinkling as he sniffed at the bottle experimentally.

Lestrade shot him a bemused look, "Its beer. You mean to tell me you've never had a beer before?" This earned him an irritated glance.

"Of course I've had beer before." His tone heavily implied the _idiot_. He'd heard that tone from Sherlock's mouth more times than he could count. "I have just never indulged in this… cheap," he took a swig and grimaced, "_tasteless_ rubbish." Greg gazed at him, a little startled.

"I never took you to be a big drinker, Mycroft." Lestrade commented, and moaned indecently as he kicked off his shoes, cracking the stiffness from his toes. Mycroft watched his feet with an expression part fascination, part mild disgust.

"Lestrade, as ever, you are bizarrely comfortable showing the more… unrefined aspects of your behaviour to guests." Greg laughed.

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again; you broke into my flat, if you see something you don't like, then it's your own damn fault. Speaking of which, what did you want anyhow?" This caused Mycroft to sit up straighter, the gleam of amusement in his blue eyes dissipating, replaced with cold a cold detachment that he had seen many times.

"As you know, Detective Inspector, there has been an accusation filed against my dearly departed brother for an act of fraudulent behaviour. This, I can assure you, is in no way true." Lestrade winced, he was sure it had not escaped Mycroft's vast attention that he was the one to arrest Sherlock in the first place. "I cannot, however, stand up in court to prove that fact, for many reasons. So, here I have a file." Mycroft leant over and reached into a sleek black briefcase that Lestrade could have sworn hadn't been there before.

Ignoring his bemused expression, Mycroft continued. "This is my darling little brother's entire _true_ life story. All the lies that had been riddled in the story sold to the newspapers have all been corrected, or taken out; which leaves us with cold hard _facts." _The word was said with vehemence. "Facts, Detective Inspector, which even your idiot Anderson – who incidentally, as you may have noticed, has a biased opinion of my brother – cannot argue with."

Greg could almost _feel_ Mycroft's cold gaze sweeping over him; it left his stripped open and bare with his guilt in full view. Clearing his throat, Lestrade croaked, "What do you need me for then?" A small, patronizing smile appeared on Mycroft's lips, but Greg saw a tender sadness in the man's eyes; a hole in his mask that Mycroft couldn't entirely fix.

"There are some things in my brother's file which are not needed or relevant to the investigation, which I am sure he would have preferred the country not to know. I do not want his memory sullied by the hands of others."

There was a moment's pause, and Lestrade pursed his lips, struggling to understand. "So… you need me to…?" He asked, in an attempt to actually direct the elder Holmes into actually answering his question. Mycroft's answering sigh spoke of his long day.

"I need you to go through this with me; you will know more than anyone – barring Dr. Watson – what my brother would have preferred to keep 'under wraps', as it were." Lestrade grunted, finally understanding.

"John will know more, why don't you ask him?" a small smile played around the edges of Mycroft's lips.

"I did, and he refused." Greg frowned.

"What? Why?"

"I get the feeling that John Watson feels more let down than my brother did at the discovery of my betrayal." He smirked and gave Lestrade a meaningful look, "Caring is not an advantage."

Lestrade frowned, "Betrayal?" Sighing, Mycroft stood and brushed off his immaculate trousers before picking up the briefcase.

"That, my dear Inspector, is a story for another time." Greg groaned at his cryptic answer.

The realisation that Mycroft was about to leave sent a panicked thrill up Greg's spine, and his hand reached automatically out with a plea to "Wait!" bubbling on his lips. Startled at himself, Greg paused whilst Mycroft gazed questioningly at the hand hovering inches from his arm. "Uh… are you um… are you okay? With everything I mean." Lestrade watched in shock as the mask of calm slipped from Mycroft's face, leaving open vulnerability in its place, all soft eyes and small, genuinely sad smiles.

"No. My brother is dead. I loved him dearly, even if he did not love me as I him. No matter. He is gone and I have work to do." He turned on is heel, the honest expression gone as quickly as it came, and strode towards the door. Lestrade wasn't having any of that.

"Mycroft!" He called after him; amazingly, he stopped at the sound of his name, one foot halfway out of the door. "I know what goes on behind that 'Caring is not an advantage' crap. You're only human; it's natural to hurt over people who've… left us. Hell, I do. I'll miss that pretentious bastard, and it's not fair what he did to us, but I know – I _know_ – it's worse for you. I just want you to know- what I'm trying- Oh, Jesus, it's just… if you need anyone to talk to then just… break into my flat. Again. Or… you know. Give me a call and you can show me what a real pint is. You shouldn't feel alone at a time like this." Lestrade visibly winced at his atrocious wording.

He wasn't quite sure why he'd offered that; having Mycroft Holmes as a friend was probably not going to be the easiest thing to deal with – but if he was anything like his brother, then he was nothing Greg couldn't handle.

Lestrade watched in fascination as confusion flashed across Mycroft's face. It was clear that he wasn't entirely comfortable with the emotion, and the pained grimace which flashed across his face only seconds after nearly made Greg giggle. Thankfully, he managed to hold his tongue.

"Thank you, Inspector… I am… I will remember that." Lestrade had the sneaking suspicion that Mycroft would never take him up on it, however; Mycroft would certainly come over, but only to talk of the file. No, he would never let his guard down again.

"Call me Greg, please." He replied with a smile.

Mycroft nodded, returning his smile tightly. "Greg."

He strode out of the door with all the dramatic flair that seemed to run in the Holmes family.

Chuckling quietly to himself, Greg meandered into the kitchen for another beer. Taking a swig, he thought wryly, _'dunno what the madman is talking about. This stuff's the bee's knees.' _He sniggered at himself, as he closed the door of the fridge. Upon turning around again, he had an odd sense of de ja vu.

Still propped against his tiny kitchen table, was the long black umbrella; still just as sinfully elegant as he had ever thought an inanimate object could be. With a bizarre sense of satisfaction, Lestrade almost skipped to the living room, whistling tunelessly. _'Now you'll have to come back you old tosspot,' _he thought devilishly, _'and I_ will _make you talk about your feelings whether you want to or not.'_

He threw himself on the sofa, sobering up a little as he spotted the file Mycroft had left on the coffee table. Greg eyed it warily for a moment, unsure what exactly to make of it. Everything was in there, he decided; having seen Sherlock's file only once before (under Mycroft's care of course), but never dared open it (for fear Sherlock would smell a special kind of paper treatment only his file had), but he had always wondered what he would find if he did.

Shrugging, he gave into his curiosity and placed his drink down on the table before running his fingers over the cover. He picked it up and weighed it in his hands, just holding it for a moment. His mind was curiously blank as he read the name in the right hand corner.

_Sherlock Holmes._

He shook his head and placed it carefully back on the coffee table.


	4. Chapter 3

At half past nine in the morning, Mycroft was fairly certain Lestrade would be awake. So, the fact that he wasn't threw him slightly off kilter; he'd never been wrong in a deduction this simple before. Perhaps there were some other variables he hadn't considered. Upon sniffing the air, he smelt the stale scent of alcohol – of course. The detective inspector was drinking last night, Mycroft had even commented on his brand of beer. How could he have missed that?

Frowning at himself, he took another step into the –frankly inadequate – living room before he froze, catching sight of his umbrella, laid in bits and pieces all over the floor. His horrified gasp jerked Lestrade out of his slumber.

"Mmnf?" he asked, his warm brown gaze hooded, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He looked so pleasantly sleep-mussed that Mycroft felt his breath catch slightly in his throat. Although, it could've been shock - one does not simply see their destroyed property without some sort of emotion – not even Mycroft Holmes.

"What in God's name have you done to my umbrella?" He cried, feeling the shock on his features. He made no attempt to control his expression though, as he usually did.

Lestrade gazed at his sleepily, a sheepish grin diffusing slowly across his face. "Um, I was checking if you had any secret gadgets, or a blade in the handle." Mycroft looked at him as if all sanity had fled him, '_perhaps he has spent too much time around my brother.' _He thought.

"I may work with MI6," (Sherlock had 'helpfully' graced Lestrade with the same _'he is the British Government, when he's not the British Secret Service or the CIA'_ speech he had supplied to John at the beginning of their acquaintance.) "But I am not _James Bond." _ Mycroft retorted, his voice coloured with disbelief.

"I'll replace it, I promise! I actually don't know what I was thinking. I think I drank too much." Lestrade mused, grimacing as he raised a hand to comb down his unruly hair. An odd look crossed his face. "Hang on, you've watched _James Bond?" _He asked, sounding almost as shocked and disbelieving as Mycroft had been on the discovery of his wrecked umbrella.

Mycroft felt mildly affronted. "I am not my brother. I do have some sense of culture." Lestrade chuckled, heaving himself off the sofa and scrubbing his hands through his hair – making it all stand on end again – and holding his breath for a moment before he let it out in a huff.

"Coffee? Tea?" He asked Mycroft, who stood awkwardly in the doorway still glancing mournfully between his umbrella and the Detective Inspector.

"Tea. Thank you." He replied, he felt only a little downcast at the loss of his brolly; he couldn't be too troubled by it, as – if Lestrade were to be believed – it died for a good cause. Besides, he had plenty at home, and it was hardly his favourite.

"So, did you come just to get your umbrella back?" Lestrade asked, pushing gently past him into the hallway. The brushing of the Inspector's body against his shocked Mycroft; nobody had ever gotten that close to him before – people found him too intimidating, his power and self control unnerving. The kind of contact he received from Lestrade expected only from close family and it left him floundering.

"Mycroft?" That started Mycroft back into reality, clearing his throat, he spun on is heel and entered the kitchen.

"No, I thought we should get started on that file." He received an amused glance.

"What if I had been working?" Lestrade asked, his brown eyes sparkling. Mycroft smirked.

"You weren't."

"But what if I was?"

"You weren't." Lestrade snorted.

"But what if I were, hypothetically, then what would you do?" Mycroft smiled wryly, _'this man,' _he thought _'is challenging. I like that.' _He smiled to himself; he rarely found a trait in a person he liked, the last time it had happened had been John Watson and his unpredictability. Sometimes, the doctor could surprise everyone in the blink of an eye. Other times, he was the most steadfast, prosaic man Mycroft knew, and that – bizarrely – was what made him the complete opposite.

Realising Lestrade was still waiting for an answer he said as he watched the older man spoon sugar into his coffee, "Well I would call your superiors and tell them that you have an assignment for the British Government, which is of the utmost importance, and your attention cannot afford to deviate elsewhere."

The detective Inspector's eyes widened as he processed Mycroft's words. "You can do that? Jesus." He muttered shaking his silvered head and returning his attention back to the drinks. After taking a sip from his coffee, he decided there was not enough sugar.

"Really? Don't you think you've had enough?" The Inspector hummed and stirred in another two teaspoons.

"You can never have enough sugar." He took another sip and nodded, a satisfied smile lighting up his features, as if that sickly monstrosity was the best cup of coffee he'd ever had. He handed Mycroft his teacup and strolled past him again. Although Mycroft was expecting the contact this time, it still seemed to jolt something in his stomach. "So, this file… what are we supposed to do?" Mycroft smirked.

"Read it." He made sure Lestrade could hear exactly how stupid he thought the question was.

"What? Really? Why didn't I think of that?" His tone dripped with sarcasm. Mycroft's lips twitched into another smile, and then pulled down into a frown again as he caught sight of his destroyed umbrella once more. Lestrade eyes searched his face, sheepish guilt suffusing his features. "I'm sorry, Mycroft," He reached out and placed a strong hand on Mycroft's arm, squeezing lightly. "I'll buy you a new one."

Mycroft smiled reassuringly, trying to set the Inspector's mind at ease. He received a happy smile in return – it lit up the whole of the DI's face, making him look years younger.

Removing his hand, he raised it to his hair and ran his fingers through the silver locks. "So…" He drawled, "Shall we get started?" Smiling, Mycroft inclined his head, watching with mild interest as Lestrade threw himself onto the couch and opened the file on the coffee table with a practiced flourish.

Smirking, Mycroft lowered himself onto the couch next to him, careful to keep a little distance between them.

He watched as Lestrade's eyes steadily widened as he flicked through the pages, taking in the masses of tiny writing, notes and anecdotes all crushed into every corner. "Jesus… There's so much…" He breathed, and Mycroft nodded, never taking his eyes off the older man's expression as he flicked through the file, barely glancing at each page before switching to a new one.

With a sigh, Lestrade's wondering expression was replaced by a hard, business-like scowl, which deepened the furrows in his brow, making him seem older again.

He started shifting through the mountain of papers, collecting the all into several different piles, murmuring to himself as he did so; flipping some papers on to their sides to read the notes hastily scrawled on by one of the many professionals who Sherlock had been forced to see.

The Detective Inspector slid a thick manila envelope out of the file – it hadn't grown as substantially as Mycroft thought it would have done if John was not around to keep Sherlock in check – and handed it to Mycroft with a wry smile.

"You can handle the medical file; seeing as I won't be able to understand a word it says." He snorted quietly to himself, as if he found his own detriment amusing. Frowning, Mycroft took the file off him wordlessly.

They were silent for a few moments, each sorting through their own piles in an attempt to make some sense of the mass in front of them.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade asked after a while.

"Hmm?"

"It says here that one of his therapists thought some of his 'issues lied in the troubled relationship between he and his older brother. When a joint meeting was suggested, the patient became angry and refused.' It says he was ten years old. Jesus, Mycroft, I knew you two had your differences, but I didn't know it stretched that far back." Mycroft nodded gravely.

"Yes – it started when he was six years old – I was thirteen." Mycroft left it at that, unwilling to share the secret of the Holmes feud. It was a story not even John Watson knew.

"So? What happened?" Mycroft grimaced.

"It was a myriad of reasons really…" The DI waited; when Mycroft didn't elaborate, he probed a little deeper. Mycroft could almost _feel _the older man's curiosity come at him in waves; it made him feel somewhat uncomfortable.

"Who started it?" Mycroft sighed. He'd become quite adept at reading people from international conferences and various other delicate situations; and his experience told him that Lestrade wasn't going to let this go.

"I suppose, if we are going to look at it that way, then I am probably the one to blame." Lestrade's eyes darted up to meet his, curiosity burning in the depths of his brown eyes. Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes.

"Sherlock… when he was young, he had no friends, he didn't want company from anyone other than myself. By then he was already making deductions and causing alarm to the adults outside of our family circle. Of course, Mummy always viewed Sherlock's antics as a positive thing; he wasn't hiding behind what people wanted him to be, and he was happy. That's all she cared about – all I should have cared about.

"He and I were very close during those first six years of his life. But we probably wouldn't have remained that way. What happened was inevitable, but it just happened earlier than it should have done, if I think about it.

"However, one day, he came home and wanted to play pirates with me – he so loved pirates." Mycroft chuckled at Lestrade's bemused expression.

"But I refused. I had had a bad day, and I had to study; but Sherlock was having none of it. He started using that insufferable six-year-old logic on me, trying to persuade me into leaving my work and play with him. Eventually, he got angry, and when he got angry, he started making spiteful little deductions about my person – mainly my weight, which was far above what was healthy at that age. They were only childish things, but they hurt nonetheless." Mycroft wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, as if to wipe away sweat.

"Eventually, I grew tired of him being there, teasing me, trying to bribe me, and stopping me from getting my work done, and I just snapped. I turned and screamed at him, and he immediately shut up, staring at me with those wide grey eyes; looking wholly like a puppy whose loving master had turned and kicked him." He sighed again, refusing to meet Lestrade's gaze.

"What did you say?" The DI asked softly, Mycroft could detect no other emotion other than compassion.

"What every other thirteen year old boy would say to his little brother. What I had been longing to say for years before that time." He laughed; it was a small sound of quiet despair and hung his head in his hands. "I said: 'Sherlock, you need to grow up! You have no friends at school because you refuse to be nice to people!' To which he replied, 'I don't need friends. I have you.' And the worshipping look came back then – God, I hated that look. So I continued, 'No! Your stupid deductions about my friends make them not like you, and not like me, because I am the brother of a freak! You embarrass me!'

"I ran off then. I'm not sure what he did after that, but later, he went missing – he hadn't left the property, because the only way out was the front gates, which were guarded. We looked for him everywhere, but we couldn't find him. One of the maids found his pirate hat and books buried at the foot of the great willow tree in the back garden, all burned with one of Daddy's old lighters."

"Did you find him?" Lestrade asked, placing a consoling hand onto Mycroft's arm.

"Yes. Eventually. The nursemaid found him asleep in the cupboard under the sink and carried him to bed. He didn't even acknowledge my existence for nearly a year afterwards – it was like his whole personality had changed overnight; I was suddenly seeing what everyone else in the world was seeing in Sherlock, rather than the real little Sherlock I knew. I was shut out of my brother's life from that moment on, and I have regretted it ever since." Mycroft's tried to keep his voice even and calm, but he could hear it waver and break minutely – he hoped Lestrade would not notice it.

"God…" the younger man breathed. " I had no idea… I am so sorry Mycroft…"

He shook his head, "No, do not pity me; it was a long time ago. I must say that the incident did seem to better him somehow – he grew up immediately. Sherlock became very much the Sherlock we knew before Doctor Watson came along – albeit, a more naïve, innocent and put together version of the Sherlock we knew. This Sherlock, although unkind, did not go out of his way to manipulate people. That came later."

Lestrade was nodding, understanding completely what Mycroft was trying to convey; a picture of an innocent young boy, trying to be a man, as of yet unsullied by his future. The image made Mycroft sad.

"Of course that wasn't the entirety of our problems, but it was however the basis to which our troubled relationship started." Mycroft continued, "Of course what built it up was a myriad of things ranging from my leaving for university, to my sudden over protectiveness at the age of fifteen."

A small tugging sensation had been occurring in Mycroft's chest ever since his brother killed himself; he had thought it was grief, plain and simple. However, at night when he lay alone in his vast bed, the nagging increased until he was practically writhing with discomfort in his sheets.

It had taken him all his courage to ask his trusted 'Anthea' to identify this pull in his chest. When he had asked, she had looked at him without pity – which was exactly as he'd hoped – and said without tone or inflection, "Guilt".

Now though, speaking to Lestrade was alleviating that nagging feeling somewhat, and he found a distinct urge in the depths of his gut, willing him to continue his story. Without fully understanding the feeling, he carried on.

"Sherlock rejected all company after the incident when he was six; he started being brutal with his deductions, and soon, whereas his classmates had all tolerated him before, they grew to hate him. It wasn't long before he started getting bullied. At first it was just name calling, which didn't faze him in the slightest, but soon enough he was coming home with bruises." Mycroft barely acknowledged Lestrade's shocked intake of breath.

"They weren't anything serious, and he venomously rejected any sort of help from either myself or Mummy, claiming he could look after himself. So we left him to it, but he started becoming emotionally fragile, and began openly seeking solitude. I could tell he needed help, but I, having been rejected by Sherlock for years, missed his 'roundabout attempts at catching my attention. When he was eleven years old, I left for university. I left him when he needed me most, and he has held it against me ever since; not that I blame him, I know it is my fault."

Mycroft was aware he was making statements to his own detriment in front of Lestrade, but the older man didn't seem to be showing signs of disgust or loathing. In fact, there wasn't even a hint of disapproval in the detective inspector's features. _'Most fascinating.' _Mycroft thought to himself.

"I didn't go back to the family house for years, barring Christmases and various other holidays; so I didn't see Sherlock for a long while – and when I did see him, I fear I had made out to myself that I was too important to deal with the trivial matters of my younger brother's life; so I did not concern myself with him.

"Undoubtedly, that above all was one of the bigger mistakes of my life." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, breathing deeply in an attempt to settle his stomach, which was writhing with guilt.

Gently, Lestrade placed his hand on Mycroft's knee. Not sure what to make of it, the younger man continued.

"Then one day, my PA interrupted a meeting with the prime minister, telling me my mother was on the phone and it was urgent – about my brother." Mycroft drew a deep breath, attempting to keep his voice level. "The poor girl sounded terrified, and fortunately, the prime minister was very gracious about letting me leave. That's when I was told that my poor, little brother had been attacked by a group of thugs, and sustained grievous bodily harm. I made my apologies to the heads of state and left immediately."

Throughout his story, Mycroft was painfully aware of every movement and shift in Lestrade's hand as it rested comfortingly on his knee. A strong thumb rubbed soothing, massaging circles into the pressure points just beside his kneecaps, and Mycroft could feel some of his tension lift with the tiny, thoughtful gestures.

He smiled gently at the Yarder, conveying reassurance that his ministrations were working before continuing with his story.

"Sherlock never looked smaller than when he was in that hospital bed. I stayed with him, and held his hand all night – which, surprisingly, he didn't protest – it was the closest we had been in nine years." He dropped his head in his hands again. "He had several broken ribs, a crack in his skull, a broken arm and two black eyes; not mentioning the other cuts and bruises he'd sustained throughout his beating." Mycroft could feel the rage mutating his features.

"He was discharged early, as soon enough, he had returned to his usual self and was harassing the nurses." Lestrade chuckled, and Mycroft's mouth twitched into a grin automatically at the sound. That threw him for a moment; he had never really had so little control over his own expression – but rather than let it phase him, he carried on.

"But he was not allowed to go back to school until Mummy and I were very sure he had fully recovered. Of course, he wasn't going back to the _same _school; we transferred him away from those nasty thugs. We had them expelled naturally, but it still did not protect him from any other bastards who would attempt to lay their hands on him. He was safer away from that place.

"I however, still had duties to perform for my country, and I couldn't stay for long; so I had surveillance set up on my brother, and warned Mummy to watch out for him constantly and call me if I was needed." He smiled tiredly at Lestrade, who was watching him with soft but solemn eyes, and comforting him with just a hand on his knee.

"Did she ever call?" The detective asked. Mycroft's mouth twitched and he nodded.

"Once. She wanted me to get a list of the very best therapists in Britain, apparently Sherlock had crashed a little, and his old therapist had dropped him. I never found out why."

Lestrade nodded, but didn't say anything; he just watched Mycroft. As the silence started to get awkward, the inspector cleared his throat and murmured, "Thank you for telling me. I mean, I kind of made you, and I'm sorry 'bout that but-" Mycroft shook his head, amusement sparking in his chest.

"Don't apologise. You're immensely good at your job, Inspector; you made me want to spill all my secrets without question – which is a hard thing to do. It's rather disturbing. Maybe you should consider becoming a spy. I can get you a position in MI6 if you wish." Mycroft deadpanned, making Lestrade laugh aloud.

"So I'm _James Bond _now?" Mycroft felt a smile pull at the corner of his lips.

"You would make a far better _007_ than I ever would. I would much prefer to sit behind a desk than to run around with a blade stashed in my umbrella." He chuckled as Lestrade flushed with an odd mixture of amusement and embarrassment.

"My mistake; you are a man of mystery after all. It was a natural error. My little boy loves _James Bond_. But only the old, good versions; he hates the newer films just as much as his Daddy." He chuckled, his brown eyes bright with affection.

"How many children do you have?" Mycroft asked, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Two; a boy and a girl. Charlie and Emma. I got part time custody in the divorce; which basically means I get them whenever Sharon decides she'll be nice. Ergo, not often, which breaks my heart. But they're good kids, and we always have lots of fun – even if we're just staying in the flat. I love them to bits." Hearing Lestrade describe his children was fascinating; his eyes shined with affection, almost as if a light had been switched on behind his eyes.

Mycroft never really understood the appeal of children. To him, they were drooling, sticky little monsters which ran around the house screaming at the top of their voice, leaving sticky little puddles of goo on expensive furnishings. But watching Lestrade describe his own kids, made Mycroft feel a little fuzzy inside - almost like a small furry mammal had curled up in his chest.

Smiling slightly, Mycroft probed for more information about the children – because, of course, one doesn't know when such information could be useful. Not because he wanted to see that adoring little smile play about on the Detective Inspector's lips again; that smile that made Mycroft's furry-chest-dwelling-mammal mewl and purr like a contented kitten.

He listened with a small smile that was – unusually – neither condescending nor meant for intimidation. The genuine minute grin felt odd and a little awkward on his face, like it wasn't meant to be there. Colouring, Mycroft rearranged his face to an expression a little less embarrassing.

"What about you? Any children? Wife?" Lestrade asked glancing quickly down at Mycroft's left hand, as if checking for a ring.

Smirking, he replied, "No. Caring is not an advantage." Lestrade's eyes narrowed at the bitterness in his voice but – with more tact than all of the Holmes' family put together would ever possess – didn't comment on it.

Clearing his throat, the Detective Inspector looked back down at the file in his hand and continued to read through the masses of notes in silence.

The quiet left Mycroft unsatisfied, and the furry animal was wriggling uncomfortably in his chest. He had a feeling Lestrade was waiting for him to break the (increasingly awkward) silence, but he was at a loss of how to start. This was hardly like one of the many functions he had had to attend on numerous occasions – at least at those affairs one could talk of politics and various generic topics. Here however, it would seem forced and uncomfortable, possibly even rude after the rather personal subjects they had been discussing earlier. So Mycroft retained his silence, as did Lestrade.

The uneasy feeling remained between them for the hour that followed; stemmed by the fact they barely spoke to one another, save for asking after missing sheets of paper, or test results. Mycroft, so intent on the twisting in his gut at the prolonged quiet continued, jumped at the sound of a mobile alert coming from his pocket.

_Meeting with prime minister and president of the US for the case in Prague. Possible MI6 and CIA cooperation. Driver to arrive in 2 minutes. _

_-A_

Mycroft read the text with a sigh. It was a good job his mobile was completely protected against any sort of computer hacking; he was sure the world would have ended by now if it wasn't.

Lestrade glanced up from his work with a questioning look when Mycroft stood and collected his sorted pile into his suitcase. "I'm afraid that is my queue to leave." He said, gesturing to his phone.

Lestrade smiled understandingly. "Ah, yes. People to see, country to run. Go on then, save the economy or something." He smiled; relieved the mood had lifted slightly even if the fact he had to leave had him strangely melancholy.

"I'm afraid it's not anything as exciting as the economy, but still dire enough for my attention. Will your pile of papers be safe here, or do you wish me to take them?"

Lestrade shook his head. "They'll be perfectly fine, don't panic. I'll lock 'em in my safe when I'm done." He smiled, an open friendly smile Lestrade wasn't used to seeing directed at himself. "Here, I'll show you out."

They walked the short hallway in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable like before; it was just a natural lapse in conversation, Mycroft would even go as far as call it companionable. As companionable a silence as he'd ever had, anyway.

He opened the door just in time to see a sleek black sedan pull up to the curb. Turning to Lestrade, he wished his goodbyes. "It's been a pleasure Detective Inspector. I shall forgive you for the umbrella."

Lestrade's smirk turned into a full-blown grin. "Please, call me Greg."

Mycroft's smile mirrored Lestrade's, and the animal purred in his chest. "Goodbye, Greg."

oOo

Lestrade watched as Mycroft disappeared behind tinted black windows, a smile playing around his mouth. Today had been a success; at least for the first half of the meeting. Lestrade had never been able to fathom Mycroft's complex personality; but the events he had relayed today had explained a lot of quirks and facets of the man's vast character that had originally been unknown to him, and what little Greg actually understood about the man fascinated him.

Mycroft seemed to Lestrade to be quite like his Sherlock in many respects; he was clever; undeniably so. Possibly, Greg mused, cleverer than Sherlock himself; though that was not something Lestrade would have been willing to admit to the consulting detective if he had been alive, for fear of finding some sort of body part in his bed (which had actually happened on one memorable occasion when said 'not-yet-consulting-detective-and-still-stoned-out-of-his-mind' Sherlock had been denied his cigarettes and narcotics).

The elder Holmes, in many ways, was more sedate and less abrasive than his brother; though with this calm, came a deep sense of power which seemed to unsettle most people more than Sherlock's disregard for social norms. Unlike those many however, this didn't faze Lestrade in the slightest – in fact, he found the buzz of authority that surrounded the man almost intoxicating. Greg had found himself several times in past, brief encounters lost in the sense of supremacy which came off him; which made him seem like an idiot on more than one occasion.

Which of course, had worsened when he had been subjected to the man's quiet laughter – so quiet, it was almost as if he was afraid to let the sound be heard. Today, Greg had struggled to look halfway sane, which he had failed to do before he even woke up.

Groaning, Lestrade ran his hand down his face, horrified at his own atrocious behaviour. That stunt with the umbrella surely made him seem like a madman. _'Great job, Greg.' _He chastised himself, scrubbing both hands through his hair with a growl.

Realising he probably looked like a complete wally stood in the middle of the street doing nothing, he spun on his heel and marched back into the flat towards the direction of the Yellow Pages that sat dutifully by his landline.

'_Right.'_ He thought _'Time to find a brolly shop.'_ Flicking to the page marked U, Greg picked up the phone and prepared to dial, laughing to himself at the ridiculousness of it all.

Spotting the name _'Bespoke Brollies'_, he felt his eyebrows raise further and further up his forehead. _'Jeez, they actually have bespoke umbrellas? That's just fucking weird.' _His fingers hesitated over the buttons, as he wondered what the hell he was actually doing.

"Aw, screw it." He muttered as he dialled the number.


	5. Chapter 4

"He shouted out, I'm all yours, babushka, babushka, babushka, ya-ay!" She sang as her guest growled and stormed into the kitchen, running a delightfully long fingered hand through his dark hair.

"Will you quit that incessant noise?" Sherlock grumbled, picking through her cupboards in search of a teacup. How very rude of him.

"Yes, and a good morning to you too. It really is delightful weather isn't it? Yes you are so very welcome; it's so gracious that you thought to thank me for letting you sleep at my little hide-out." She crooned, her voice positively dripping with derision.

"Be quiet, Irene, your obnoxious commentary is not welcome at this time in the morning." He muttered dryly, his mouth quirked up into a wry smirk.

"Oh, honey, if only that were true. In reality," She hummed, standing on bare tip-toes to place her mouth close to his ear, "you can't get enough of me." She whispered; a flirtatious hush of words designed to make the unflappable detective- well, flap.

Frustratingly, he did no such thing.

"Am I to believe you will be helping me, as we discussed yesterday evening, or do I have to find assistance elsewhere?" Irene could have sighed; this man was all business, so devoid of pleasures that he, by all rights, should have been a machine. As it was, she laughed incredulously.

"Sugar, yesterday evening you were bleeding from the head and swaying like a sailor unused to unmoving land. It was less a discussion, and more of a garbled demand."

"I was perfectly coherent." He grumbled, still ferreting around for a cup.

"You were not."

"I was too."

"Not."

"Was too."

"Not."

Sherlock sighed, seeming to have given up his search for a tea-cup with an irritated huff. "You are so very childish, Miss Adler."

She scoffed, turning only slightly to eye him shrewdly. "What is it you wanted to discuss, darling?"

The former detective turned his unreadable steely gaze onto Irene and she returned it, raising one perfectly plucked eyebrow at his extended silence. After a moment, Sherlock's body rocked back slightly as he inhaled deeply.

"I need your help."

"Yes, I gathered that."

He ignored the sarcasm as if he hadn't even noticed it was there. "I need any and all contacts you have left relating to your time with Jim Moriarty."

Irene chuckled lightly, "You must have bumped your head really quite hard, Mr. Holmes, if you think I still have anything connecting to ihim/i.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "insurance is your top priority, Miss. Adler, and that means you hoard any and all information you deem useful to your cause."

"You hit the nail on the head there, Sherlock; yet I'm still confused why you'd think I'd endanger myself by putting myself in the same position."

A smirk spread across his handsome features. "It's simple really when you think about it; having information on all influential players of The Game gives you a tactical advantage. Should anyone of them find out you are still alive, and come for you, you use any and all incriminating evidence for blackmailing purposes, or you distribute it around to give other players an advantage. That way it leaves you in an extraordinary position of being able to manipulate The Game to turn out in your favour and, if done correctly, give you the ability to switch between the players who are likely to win." His cold grin grew wider at her raising eyebrows, "therefore, Miss Adler, unless you were stupid which, despite the evidence, is unlikely, you were never going to get rid of information or contacts from Moriarty's web, no matter how many times I demanded you to."

Adler hummed, "Yes, brains are definitely still sexy. All right, Mr. Holmes, just because you asked nicely." She strolled towards the living room, throwing a lazy wink in his direction. Sherlock followed her with his eyes, keeping his ears alerted in case she tried to escape. He found it unlikely at this point; no, she'd save the running until later, when someone began to depend on a steady stream of new information from her. Of course, all the while, she would be compiling intelligence on her allies – for insurance purposes. Obviously.

The steady click of heels on the kitchen tiles announced her arrival back into the room, and Sherlock's eyes zeroed instantly on the phone in her hand. It was a newer model than the one he had in Baker Street, and by the look of the sleek exterior, was likely to be better protected. "Hand me your phone," she said, connecting a small black box to a port, hidden beside the charger port on her phone.

Cautious, he handed it to her, curious to see what she would do. As soon as the device was in her hand, she began taking it apart; unclipping the battery from its place and sliding out the S.D. card from the chipboard and handing it to Sherlock. Painted nails flashing, she then typed through her own phone with a cool frenzy only seen in a practiced user, and smiled with satisfaction when the little black box connected to the device chirped, followed by a flashing green light.

She disconnected the device from her phone and pressed the edge of her long thumbnail against a tiny button on the device. Like a CD emerging from a player, a new S.D. card slid slowly from the side of the device, and waited, half emerged, for Irene to take.

Without hesitation, she passed the new memory card to Sherlock. "This has all the protection and encryption you'll need to store anything later on – it should give you an advantage over Moriarty's deputy, because he won't know that you have information on his organisation."

"He doesn't know I'm alive," Sherlock murmured, turning the tiny card over in his fingers, before clicking it into his phone.

Irene's lips quirked into a wry smile, "He will eventually. Not much escapes that man; not as clever as Moriarty, but ruthless, and the most resourceful person I have ever met. That includes myself." She laughed gently and placed a hand on Sherlock's wrist as he examined the contents of his new memory card through his phone screen.

"Every piece of information on that card is irreplaceable; I will not be giving you a duplicate copy if it gets stolen or deleted, so use it wisely. That memory card is specifically designed to encrypt any file you keep on there, so password protect it before you leave. Don't make the same mistake I did, Mr. Holmes, I'm nearly One Hundred percent certain that sentiment will put you in a more dangerous position than it ever put me in.

"It is also specifically designed to wipe itself clean if the password is wrong more than three times, and though it has no explosives or acid, it will buy you time to get far enough away whilst they retrieve the deleted data and try de-code it."

The hand holding Sherlock's wrist tightened for a moment, nudging Sherlock to lift his head to look at her.

"Don't die, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson would kill me. Besides, you still owe me dinner."

Sherlock's face remained impassive as he tugged his hand away from Irene's, and he presented her with a shallow bow before slipping his old memory card and newly protected phone into his jacket pocket.

"Look after yourself, Miss Adler." He said, without a glance back.

"Good Luck… Sherlock."

Adler watched the ex-detective leave with a ponderous expression. What exactly he thought he was going to achieve taking on Moriarty's network like that was beyond her. Idly, she wondered if Holmes knew he was embarking on a suicide mission, and if he did, why he kept doing it. Well, she refused to be taken down with him, despite the old debts she owed. The information he wanted she gave him – she'd done her bit. Now it was time for her to disappear again, before The Colonel realised that The Great Sherlock Holmes was not as dead as he appeared.

Sighing, she reached for her fur lined coat and brought out her phone, tapping a message to some of her lower rank 'friends.' Well, she knew what he liked. All she needed now was to get her affairs in order, then once more unto the breach.

oOo

John sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the spot where Mycroft had left the file. True to his word, it was gone by the time he got back from his unsettling trip to the pub. He briefly wondered what information could have possibly been in the file before dispelling the thought with a shake of the head. Wondering about it would get him absolutely nowhere; there was no point in dwelling in the things of the past, when he was barely struggling to deal with the present.

John was seasoned when it came to grief. His father ploughed into a lamppost when he was 15, his mother died of alcohol poisoning during his first tour in Afghanistan and Harry was looking to go the same way. Sometimes he felt as if he'd lost her already, so deep in the throes of addiction that she was.

So he was no stranger to the helpless rage he felt coiling in his gut at the thought of Sherlock's death. Heartbroken 'what ifs' and 'maybes' floated about in his mind: 'What if I had gotten there sooner?', 'maybe if I hadn't fallen for the phone call about Mrs. Hudson.'

'What if he'd actually fucking listened for once.'

'What if I was with him?'

'Maybe if I hadn't left him alone…'

'Maybe if he wasn't such a self-centered, egotistical bastard, intent on playing The Game – damned the consequences – he wouldn't have fucking done that to me.'

His therapist would probably have a freaking field day.

There was nothing he could do now. Sherlock was gone, and although it wasn't his fault, he couldn't help feel that a small amount of blame lay on himself for not recognising the signs. He was a doctor. He should have realised how unstable Sherlock was. He should have warned Mycroft. Despite the gross misconduct and betrayal, as his brother, he would have known what to do. The Game had gotten to Sherlock and he hadn't realised until it was too late.

Whimpering, he pressed his lips together and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his riotous emotions under control.

"Yoohoo," came a soft voice to his left. The usual cheery sound of Mrs. Hudson's arrival in the flat was diminished by the sadness in her voice. The greeting sounded hollow to both their ears. "Come on, dear," Mrs. Hudson cajoled, pressing firm but gentle hands to his shoulder, "up you get."

"What are you doing, Mrs. Hudson?" He asked her, tiredly, but doing as he was asked all the same.

"You need some sleep, love. With all the excitement this week, I know you haven't got any sleep."

"Excitement is one word for it," He muttered bitterly, ignoring her gentle tsk. "How did you know I wasn't sleeping?"

She smiled sadly, her eyes tender and obviously sore with dried up tears. "Only a person who hasn't slept has bags as big as yours under their eyes."

John laughed, "You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Hudson," he said automatically. The joke caused them both to pause, awkwardly looking anywhere but each other. John's eyes seemed to gravitate to the violin laying abandoned in the now ownerless chair, and he felt a lance of pain strike through his lungs as grief overcame him. But he didn't cry. He couldn't; not in front of Mrs. Hudson, who barely seemed to be holding together herself. He blinked twice, clearing his eyes of traitorous tears and tightened his arm gently around her waist, pulling her into a hug. Carefully, he pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek before sighing and whispering "Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson," before releasing her and beginning the climb to his bedroom.

When he finally reached the bedroom, he closed the door behind him and leant on the hard wood. Finally, ifinally/i he let himself cry. Tears began to roll down John's cheeks, and his throat grew sore from swallowing around the hard lump which had taken a permanent residence there the last few days. Soon, he was gasping quietly; a small desperate sound that settled themselves in the darkest corners of his room.

The whole of London seemed to halt and stand in silent vigil for the doctor's tears – he heard none of the cities usual hustle and bustle. He heard no ambulances, no police, no sharp sounds of car horns, or slams of doors, or shouting of drunken Londoners in the night. Instead just silence. An oppressive, mourning silence broken only by his hushed sobs.

John slid his back down the door until he was sat against it, and with his head in his hands, he cried.

oOo

John's head pounded as he groaned awake, rubbing at a stiff pain in the back of his neck. He'd fallen asleep against the door, his tears tiring him out so much that he had no desire to move. It was still dark out, and glancing at the luminous clock face on his bedside table told him it was past 4 in the morning. Releasing a long, choked breath, he rubbed his right eyebrow with sore knuckles.

A shuffle of footsteps downstairs made him freeze. John's muscles tensed and he was alert in an instant, his body preparing for fight. He concentrated on focusing his mind from its panic by drawing it towards his instinctive bodily reactions to the sound of a stranger in the flat. His parasympathetic nervous system had kicked in, and his body was preparing for either fight or flight. Despite being officially discharged from the army for nearly 2 years, his dominant response was still to fight; the soldier in him never quite pampered out of him by the cushy lifestyle he'd gained in 221B.

Sherlock's insistence to tear around the city after criminals had kept him in shape, and his still occasionally gimpy leg remained steady and pain-free underneath him as he shifted into a crouch. Careful not to aggravate the creaky hinge on his bedroom door, he slid out of his bedroom and onto the landing. Slowly, he made his way down the stairs, listening to the rustle of papers and whisper of cloth coming from the main body of 221B.

Lingering in the main doorway, he stared at the opposite window, trying to judge reflections through the darkened glass. Though almost as soon as he made a step towards entering the flat, a shadow loomed against the wall.

It was a tall shadow, which almost leered with how tall and skinny it was. The figure turned slightly as he rummaged, so the shadow gained more shape, and two angular juts appeared around about the chin; almost like the cut of a coat collar, popped up in a dramatic fashion.

John gasped before he could stop himself, his stomach dropping in dread. Could it be really be? The figure was so awfully familiar, it made his heart beat an angry pulse against his ribs.

The man in the kitchen froze, staring into the living room for a split second before darting away. Panic overtook John and he leapt into action, careening around the corner like his life depended on it before skidding to a stop in the entranceway to the kitchen. The door from the kitchen to the hallway had been flung open, and the end of a long coat was just disappearing around the door. Barely hesitating, John chased the elusive coat down the stairs, stumbling at the bag which had been thrown in his path. It only held him up for a moment, but it left him cursing. Though he ran as fast as he possibly could, whoever was in the kitchen had escaped through the front door; obviously left open from when he'd broken in.

He staggered to a stop outside 221, frantically spinning around to catch any sign of the man running down the street. If it had been who he thought it had been, then he would have been easily long gone by now. His intimate knowledge with every nook and cranny in London working in his advantage.

"John?" Came Mrs. Hudson's voice from the doorway behind him, "what are you doing out in the cold, dear?" She sounded concerned; which was fair enough to be honest.

"Someone broke into the flat, Mrs. Hudson, but I don't know where they went." She gasped behind him and tottered out to stand on the street with him, her arms wrapped tightly around her little body, clutching at only a shawl covering her.

"Who do you think it was?" She asks, her voice hushed.

He eyes the pools of darkness between the street lamps. "It look like-" he took a deep breath, casting an appraising glance over to the old woman next to him. "It looked like Sherlock, honestly." She drew in a sharp breath and looked over to him, her eyes sharp.

"Did you see his face?"

"Well… No, but…. The shadow was pretty- pretty distinctive." He mumbled, studiously looking away. He could almost feel the concerned pity coming off her in waves.

"Sweetheart, he's dead," she placed a frail hand on his shoulder, rubbing the ball of it gently. "You've just had a bit of a fright, that's all. You're hoping it was Sherlock – hell, I'm sure we all would if we were in the same position." She continued to natter on, unaware at his slowly rising frustration, "and I know it's been worse for you than anyone else, seeing as you loved him so dearly-"

"Mrs. Hudson!" he snapped, wincing as it rang through the night. "Mrs. Hudson, we weren't a couple; it was no worse for me than anyone else." She clucked sympathetically and patted his shoulder again.

"Okay, love." John was almost 100% she was just humouring him. "You come back inside when you're ready dear, we can call your policeman friend in the morning to report the break in. For now, get some sleep. I'll bring you some tea in the morning." With that, she left; leaving him to glare at any offending shape down the street.

John was sure he was right; he'd stared at that profile more times than he'd liked to admit in the last couple of years. Admiring the arch of Sherlock's proud neck, the stiff elegance with which he held himself when still, and the surprising lack of grace he showed when he got absorbed or excited and forgot his icy, aloof exterior. Wondering how soft his curls would be if he ran his fingers through them, or if his skin was as cold as it looked. To be honest, he wasn't surprised that people thought he was gay for Sherlock. Sometimes he wondered it himself.

John stalked down the street, pausing to peer down any alleyways he came across; but not a soul was in sight. A slow ache began to take residence in his leg the further he got from Baker Street, until eventually it got too much and he admitted defeat. Hobbling back to the flat, he tried to ignore the pain. Hissing, "Get over it, it's ipsychosomatic/i for crying out loud," to himself.

He hated to acknowledge the return of the limp because he knew exactly why it was returning. His crutch, his cure, iSherlock/i was gone and he was feeling his missing presence like a phantom limb. Obviously his real limbs were missing the obnoxious aura he put out too. The pain scared him, like it scared him to acknowledge that Sherlock might not come back for him.

If that figure was him, he was pretty eager to leave John behind. It hurt, really. He wasn't quite sure what to do with it. Greg would know.

oOo

Cane back in hand, he limped through New Scotland Yard's doors and into the foyer. His presence there wasn't exactly a strange thing what with his association with Sherlock over the years; yet people stopped and stared, keeping a wary distance. Probably because he looked suitably murderous for a Tuesday morning. He had his scary war-face on, ensuring his ease of passage into the homicide department and towards Detective Inspector Lestrade.

The man in question was hovering by the printer inside his office, holding a steaming mug in one hand, and rubbing his tired face with the other. The area around the homicide department fell into a tense hush at his entrance from the elevator, and Lestrade seemed to notice. He looked up quickly, his face twisted into an odd little smile, as if he was expecting someone. John obviously wasn't who he was expecting, if his slight jaw-drop was anything to go by.

The army doctor stalked as fast as he could manage towards the office, his eyes resolutely on Greg's paling face. "John! I didn't realise you were coming," he clocked John's cane and his eyes widened a little as he closed the door behind them. "Jesus, mate, what did you do?"

John rolled his eyes, glad for the semblance of privacy they now had. "My war wound's playing up. It doesn't matter. I need to talk to you."

Lestrade looked up from John's leg and his face slipped from its usual open warmth to a slight grimace. "If this is about me arresting Sherlock, John, I have to say-"

"No," John interrupted firmly, "No, it's not about that."

"Oh, okay," he seemed a little relieved, but still continued on the same vein. "Look mate, I am really sorry-"

"Don't."

"It's my job, you know? The issue was brought to me and I couldn't leave an accusation like that-"

"Greg."

"No, please, John, you have to believe me, I never would have thought that-"

"LESTRADE," John shouted, shutting the Detective Inspector up pretty quickly. "I know you did what you had to," he continued, hurrying a little at the hurt look on the elder man's face. "I don't blame you. Moriarty had everyone fooled."

Lestrade grimaced but thankfully, nodded. "So what can I do for you then, John?"

It was John's turn to grimace, scratching the back of his neck a little sheepishly. "We were broken into last night." The DI frowned.

"Sorry to hear that, is everyone okay?" The 'everyone' was an automatic, and they both winced at the casual slip. "are er, are you and Mrs. Hudson alright?"

"Oh, yeah, we're fine."

"That's good but, mate, we're homicide; breaking and entering a London flat isn't really our division." John shook his head and looked at the scuffed toes of his boots.

"It… It looked like Sh-Sherlock." Greg didn't move or say anything, he didn't even flinch. After a moment, John looked up at him.

There was that damned look again- a concerned pitying look which really fucking irritated him.

"John," He started, his voice gentle.

"No, I know what you're going to say."

"Come on, John, if you know what I'm going to say, you know it's true."

"Why is everyone treating me like a child all of a sudden? I know who it was." The DI paused for a moment, pursing his lips in thought.

"John, I know that when you lose someone, you can start projecting. Jesus, it's happened to me before. I remember when my Dad died-"

"Don't patronise me, Lestrade." He sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. "People seem to forget I was in Afghanistan; I've dealt with death before."

Lestrade smiled with a gentle curl of his lip, "yeah, but… it was Sherlock."

John winced and turned his head. Yes, it was different. Despite the near constant nightmares of Afghanistan, and the faces of all the soldiers, civilians and patients he couldn't save swimming in his dreams, replaying Sherlock's fall would overshadow them. His friend's bloodied face and his body sprawled on the concrete would haunt the back of his mind, asleep or awake for years to come – possibly for the rest of his life.

He knew Lestrade was going to be of no help to him. He needed to approach this like it was any other case – but this time, it was Sherlock who provided the clues, not the answers.

At John's silence, Greg grimaced, and reached around to place his hand on John's shoulder. "John, you're probably exhausted. You look it. Why don't you get some rest, eh?" He scoffed and shook the Detective Inspector's hand off. Spinning on his heel, he stormed to the door of the DI's office. The staff on the other side of the glass door looked away quickly, attempting to cover up their staring. John's anger ratcheted up a few notches; he was sick of being treated like a circus show. His grief wasn't gossip material.

He paused and turned back to Lestrade, whose concerned expression still marred his features. "I know who I saw," he reiterated, hoping futilely to get isomething/i out of the DI.

Greg smiled a little, still looking anxious, "I know. That's what worrying me, to be honest."

John pursed his lips and straightened his shoulders, acknowledging the concern with a perfunctory, military nod. He grasped his cane a little tighter and limped back into the main room, ignoring the stares – some more subtle than others – as he made his way back onto London streets.

Tilting his face upwards slightly, he let the light rain wet his face. He considered his next move carefully; he wouldn't go to Mycroft because, despite his confidence earlier, Lestrade had still placed the seed of doubt in his head. He needed to go investigate someone who had seen Sherlock's body first hand – someone who confirmed his death. Someone who did the autopsy.

He needed to speak to Molly Hooper.


End file.
